


Thanksgiving: A Batman/Ben Ten Tale of Silliness

by LostUnderTheSurface



Category: Batman (Comics), Ben 10 Series
Genre: Crack Crossover, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 02:18:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8647870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostUnderTheSurface/pseuds/LostUnderTheSurface
Summary: Ben Ten and Batfam are a volatile mix.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this almost two years ago for a smol friend. I was deep in the Ben Ten fandom at the time. I have no excuses.

It was Thanksgiving Day at the Wayne Manor, and the whole family had come together for this festive occasion.

In the hot, humid kitchen, Alfred Pennyworth was assembling the turkey and all the proper fixings to go with it. Barbara Gordon, sporting Dick's shiny engagement ring on her left ring finger, was helping him with aforementioned activities. Damian Wayne, the little pumpkin-headed punk, was hanging around the kitchen, snitching tidbits from the platters when the other two had their backs turned, getting in the way with deceptively-innocent observations, and in general being a little nuisance.

“You're charring the bird of prey in the oven,” he told Barbara with something akin to satisfaction, as if he wanted the turkey to be ruined.

From his post near several large pies that had Damian's fingerprints on their top crusts, Alfred solemnly intoned, “Turkeys are not a bird of prey, Master Damian.”

Damian stuck out his tongue at Alfred and said something unrepeatable. Barbara smacked him on the bum with a flour-dusted rolling pin and said, “Get out of here and find something useful to do.”

More tongue-sticking and unrepeatable insults followed, but Damian finally sulked his way out of the kitchen and into the fifty-foot high dining room.

In here, Dick and Tim were supposed to be setting the table. Of course, they had no intention of setting the table. They had other, more important, things to be doing.

“Go long!” Dick yelled, tossing the football toward the far end of the room. Tim leaped into the air and caught it, executing a perfect back-flip as he landed.

“Show off,” Damian muttered. He trudged down the length of the table, ignoring the other two as their continued their raucous and rather inappropriate game (for the dining room, anyway).

When he reached the end of the room, he realized that going to his room to play video games in blissful solitude didn't actually sound all that blissful. He had a demon lurking inside him—he needed another victim, and both of these former robins were out of the question.

That left the girls—if he could find them.

“Where's Brown?” Damian asked Tim, hoping to find an easy target.

“She's in the attic looking at photo albums,” Tim said, twirling the pigskin on his fingertip before drawing it back. As he snapped his wrist to fling it through the air, he added, “And before you ask, Cass and Bruce are down in the cave doing exercises with a 'Do-Not-Disturb' sign on the clock. Don't even bother.”

“As if I would be that stupid.” Damian rolled his eyes and stalked out of the room. He headed for the attic stairs while considering the different things he could do to Steph to get under her skin—not literally, of course. By the time he was actually mounting the stairs to the dim and dusty receptacle of outdated Wayne relics, he was still waffling between putting spiders down her neck or shooting her eye with a spitball. Both sounded too—kiddish. He needed something more refined, more adult—something Bruce or Talia would invent.

It was then that he heard the unmistakable voices drifting out from the open attic door. He froze on the steps for a second, his right hand clenching the banister so hard he almost dislocated it from the wall, then dashed up them two at a time. He couldn't believe who was up there with Steph and had to look to make sure.

And sure enough, there they were—Gwen Tennyson and her hunk of an idiot boyfriend, Kevin Levin.

“Stupidest name ever,” Damian grumbled under his breath, watching them from the doorway.

They were all flipping through crackly-paged photo albums from the fifteenth century—er, that is, the _girls_ were looking at the albums. Kevin had found an old suit of armor that had been too dinged and dusty to be relocated to the artifacts room, and was instead now the outer covering for a half-Osmosian who could already coat himself in practically every substance known to man (if he had a large enough quantity of it, of course).

“Kevin, you can make your own armor,” Gwen was saying as Damian skulked unseen into the room. “You don't even need to wear that.”

“Besides,” Steph added, “it's really dirty. You're getting grit everywhere.”

“It's really heavy,” Kevin said from within the helmet's mouth-guard. “And I think there's a cobweb in my hair. But it's cool, too! I mean, watch this!” He began swinging the rusty sword around, nearly lopping the girls' heads off.

“Watch it!” Steph yelled.

“You just spattered dirt all over the photos!” Gwen protested. “Alfred is going to kill us!”

At that moment, Kevin tripped over the clunky boots and fell toward the pile of boxes behind which Damian was hiding. The boxes toppled over and exposed the lurking boy. He showed Kevin his teeth.

“There's a dog hiding in here!” Kevin exclaimed. “And it looks kind of like Damian!”

“I AM Damian!” he snarled back. “And you're going to pay for that, Levin!”

Damian launched himself onto Kevin, who shed himself of his armor while absorbing the metallic surface. In the ensuing melee, Damian was thrown across the room and out the attic window. The shattering glass covered up Damian's shout of dismay as he hurtled to the ground below.

“Kevin!” Gwen screamed.

He shrugged his metallic shoulders. “Oops.”

“He'll be making snow-angels now,” Steph pointed out with some measure of glee. “Let's go watch!”

The three rushed to the attic window and leaned out. Damian had hit the ground by that time and was groaning and cursing as he rolled out of a snow bank.

“You're lucky he didn't break his back,” Gwen scolded her boyfriend.

“He looks fine,” Steph reported, somewhat downcast. “Let's shoot this ancient crossbow at him.” She unhooked the weapon from its dusty stand and began cranking back the release.

“Are you crazy?” Gwen demanded. “We could get in big trouble if we hurt him!”

Kevin gave the wrecked attic a cursory glance. “Don't think we could get in much bigger trouble than we are now.”

Gwen sighed and pulled Steph away from the window. “Come on, we could use your help to clean this up.”

“But you could just use manna on it, right?”

“HELP.”

Meanwhile, down on the ground, Damian was rubbing his soaked backside and muttering dire and unrepeatable curses Kevin-ward. But now that he was out in the snow, he had another idea. With a quick glance up to make sure they were no longer watching him, he flopped backward into the snow and swished his arms and legs in up-down motions, creating the snow-angel Steph had so fervently hoped for—though not quite the angel she had been thinking of.

At this moment, Ben Tennyson, the only person Damian hated more than Kevin, appeared on the scene. That is, he appeared in one of his a million and one alien forms, the one called Big Chill. He appeared phasing through the wall a few feet away from Damian, who had his eyes closed and thus did not see Ben.

_Fwoosh!_

_Shreech!_

And there was a Damian popsicle in the middle of the yard.

“Ben!” Gwen shouted down from the attic. Her alien-clad cousin turned and hissed at her. “Ben, that's not how you play!”

“It's how he plays,” Ben breathed back, creating little clouds of condensed moisture. He floated up to the window and hovered in front of Gwen, wafting icy breath all over her and causing icicles to form on her hair. “It's the rules of the League of Assassins that he keeps going on about. Strike before they strike you. So I beat him to it.”

“I don't think Bruce is going to be very happy to find that you've frozen his son,” Steph told him.

She was proven right about an hour later, when Bruce and Cass emerged from the cave and discovered the Damian-sicle in the backyard. There was a tremendous shouting and yelling in the dining room, where everyone had gathered for dinner, and the result was that Swamp-Fire was seen on the lawn melting the furious Damian out of his icy prison.

And thus the Thanksgiving Day tradition of making Damian-sicles was born, and it has been continued unto this day. Amen.

**Author's Note:**

> And no regrets.


End file.
